


The Garden of Gazelles

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [13]
Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Anal-Oral Sex, Androgynous male character, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Biting, Dark Het, Dirty Talk, Domination, Erotica, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Ghost Sex, Hair-pulling, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Hickeys, Historical, Historical Romance, Horny female character, Invisible sex, Kaftan ripper, Magic, Magic as sex aid, Married Couple, Master/Slave, Middle Ages, Muslim Character(s), Neck Kissing, Older Man/Younger Woman, Original Fiction, Outdoor Sex, POV Female Character, PWP, Poetic, Public Claiming, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Ravishment, Ravishment Fantasy, Romance, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Soul Bond, Spiritual, Spiritual sex, Squirting, Standalone, Stripping, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, can be read as a standalone/original fic, garden sex, neck biting, pussy juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By his witchcrafts he scents her heat, pursuing her into the moonlit garden; there, he ravishes her a man made of shadows, a demon, a ghost. </p><p>
  <i>No matter how many years pass, there are still nights upon which their love is tempestuous, violent; where Desire will not wait a coy maiden but will surge forth the ravisher. It is the love of clashing teeth that cut the lip, of clothes burning the skin as they're torn, of mouths panting wet from blood and secretions, exuding moans strange and terrible like heathen incense.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yassamin's heart races faster than her feet as she runs from Jaffar through the corridor; the shadows of pillars, lattices, bushes flickering about her as if hands, bodies reaching out to touch her: she is so heated she can feel each one a touch upon her skin, like a crowd of vulgar caresses.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yet there is one shadow that is warmer than the rest, one shadow with its sweet cruelties familiar to her flesh, one shadow more alive than its brothers with its hands reaching out to squeeze her breasts, sore and heavy from premenstrual heat. She has not seen him, heard him but she knows he is there: Jaffar, her sorcerer, Jaffar, her beast; Jaffar, her master, her king.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden of Gazelles

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Of Roses Unfurling series and takes place right after [Autumn's Fruit Bitter and Sweet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7112743), but can be read as a standalone. Jaffar takes upon the ghostly, invisible form he first wooed Yassamin with when she was still but a maiden; now, he chases her through the garden in that form and delivers her a wild ravishment.

_"When two lovers kiss their breath mingles,_  
and, if they really love,  
each is conscious that in the breath of the loved one  
is the loved one's soul,  
coming forth from the temple of the body  
through the temple door." 

\--Robert Hichens, The Garden of Allah

***

No matter how many years pass, there are still nights upon which their love is tempestuous, violent; where Desire will not wait a coy maiden but will surge forth the ravisher. It is the love of clashing teeth that cut the lip, of clothes burning the skin as they're torn, of mouths panting wet from blood and secretions, exuding moans strange and terrible like heathen incense.

Yassamin's heart races faster than her feet as she runs from Jaffar through the corridor; the shadows of pillars, lattices, bushes flickering about her as if hands, bodies reaching out to touch her: she is so heated she can feel each one a touch upon her skin, like a crowd of vulgar caresses. Shadows hot and crass and cool and tender, shadows bursting into flight as birds, now startled out of the rosebushes, flee before her.

Yet there is one shadow that is warmer than the rest, one shadow with its sweet cruelties familiar to her flesh, one shadow more alive than its brothers with its hands reaching out to squeeze her breasts, sore and heavy from premenstrual heat. She does not turn to look back--she has not seen him, heard him but she knows he is there: Jaffar, her sorcerer, Jaffar, her beast; Jaffar, her master, her king. 

The moment she had stepped out into the garden that night, her nightdress sticking to her skin in the humid air, not having seen her lover all day, not having known him in her bed for days--oh, her need itself, the ache deep within the root of her cunny had summoned him as surely as a stag dominant finds from her scent-trail the female in heat.

 _Cunt-spoor,_ he breathes hot and wet into her ear, swirling the sticky words into her with his tongue dipping deep, sickeningly deep into her ear, oh, licking her eardrum; a chuckle rich pouring its vibrations down her jaw and rippling down her spine to her aching, pounding, squeezing sex. 

Swift, his shadow is upon her before he himself has reached her: she feels his weight oppressing her, crushing her ribcage, pushing its fingers into her throat, a prick of spirit sliding into her cunny so that she staggers in her steps, her pelvis spread out by its width wedged into her. Her legs are nudged apart so that she nearly falls over, has to grab a pillar for balance: she has reached the end of the building, the arcade that leads into the garden. 

_And there, no one will be able to hear you scream, my sweet,_ Jaffar laughs, a laughter delirious and broken, a sodomite's giggle, the rustle of the leaves beside her like the sound of silks parted to lift out a prick. Yet still, she refuses to turn around, her face pressed into the cool stone of the pillar: it would ruin it all, ruin it for her to see him there physically, even if she knows he cannot be there; no, no, he has to have sent but his spirit to so hunt her. 

_Correct,_ he whispers within her mind, weighing his sack in his hand, letting her feel the heaviness of it, the thickness of his blood-fattened cock, the smooth-shaven skin of his genitals exquisitely sensitive as he now cups himself in his palm. _Just tonight, I prepared myself for you, my love, my love,_ he breathes around her, sending a ghost-hand to cup her cunny from the front: _Tell me, my sweet, is this little thing ready for me, too? Pretty for me, bare for me, each inch of skin ready to feel my touch? For I want no part of you to be hidden from me,_ he now keens into her with a creak of despair: _All of you for me, all of you for me, all of you for me,_ he sings into her; and again he croons out that eunuch-laughter with a touch of hysteria, as he indeed discovers she is bare. 

_Let's have a deeper look, shall we? Whether you are ready for me, ready for me?_

All of Yassamin howls as his fingers, his long, skilled fingers reach inside of her cunny with ease, slipping the tips past the gate into her flesh and curling there, his hand so huge to the smallness of her cunny that he can cup the mound of it simultaneously as he so takes her. _Oh, but you are, you are, you are,_ he again sings without lips, fucks her with his hooking fingertips, lifting her onto her toes until she is sobbing into the pillar, hanging onto it a woman drowning. Drowning in her despair, drowning in the fragrance of his sex, his musks, his heat joining hers, his heat, his heat--

But as soon as he has entered her, he is gone. Her legs give way and she slouches onto the floor, panting against its marble; she tastes sweet cunny in her mouth, he sharing with her the bounty-- _no, my sweet, but the **appetizer**_ \--of the conquest he is now sucking off his fingers.

_Over there._

She lifts her face. She is looking at the end of the garden, split into squares of green grass by white stone rills, and in the middle of it, a musical fountain with four marble lions, now silent but for the water bubbling out of their mouths. A row of thick cypresses separates their estate from the road that passes it, from the pastures on the other side, belonging to one of their neighbours. It is not a busy road, but it's Friday and this is the way the pious take to the mosque, and the late night prayers--surely they are not at an end yet? There are always a few village men returning to play checkers and drink tea at the chaikhana not far away--

_Which is exactly why you are going to bend over that fountain--yes, that way around, with your pretty little bottom facing the cypresses and the road--right there, my sweet little thing, right there._

"No!" she shouts as she gets to her feet, finally looking around herself. 

There's no one there, and she feels a fool, a woman standing there in the middle of the garden in the middle of the night, talking to a man invisible. She feels a fool for resisting, knowing her own desire for far greater an enforcer than Jaffar could ever be, her own perversity a ravisher crueller than any tyrant; it is her own twisted, contrary heart that's blacker than that of any brigand as it strips her of the jewels of her dignity, chastity, pride.

"Jaffar?" she calls out into the night, clenching and unclenching her fists beside her thighs. Feeble, guilty thoughts fill her mind, a sudden shame for having doubted Jaffar so: perhaps he has cast a spell over this garden and none can see her? After all, he would never let anyone steal these jewels she has laid at his feet; her surrender belongs to him and him alone. Perhaps she is ruining the game, perhaps... "Jaffar?"

There is no answer; the stone lions roar out water from their mouths, and the road is quiet. 

"Jaffar?" she asks again, clutching at her kaftan, now. " _Is_ there a spell?"

But it is then that her gown is pulled off her and she is pushed face down, arse up over the fountain's edge, bent over the yard-wide strip of marble lining it. _Perfect for sitting, perfect for picnics--perfect for little displays of ownership,_ he laughs into her ear. 

She screams into the marble, her voice echoing off it, but now her kaftan is bunched up and shoved underneath her, Jaffar twisting her hands behind her back and pushing her face into this new makeshift pillow.

 _And as a matter of fact, my sweet,_ he slips his words in between her squirms and screams like so many knives; _there is no such spell; none. Anyone can see us, anyone at all._

She screams even louder, now, her eyes flying wide, her voice dwindling into hopeless sobs as he pushes the silk into her mouth, as he pushes into her cunny his cock. Invisible, he remains around her, within her, taking her, bending her to his will with ease: she hates him, hates him for this, hates him for the mercy of the silk muffling her cries, the wall of the cypresses that is no shelter at all. 

_That's right, my dear,_ he laughs. _Now you can scream all you like--it does feel **so** terribly sweet around my prick, I must say. And who knows, perhaps we will have visitors? It's such a pretty sight, too, my child, that little cunny of yours; such a pretty sight._

And through his mind swirling into hers, his eyes slotting their vision over hers, he shows to her his masterpiece, to him far greater a triumph than the complex engineering of the fountain-lions: his Yassamin, bent there sweetly in offering to the night. 

_To Aphrodite Philopannyx,_ his heathen heart whispers in adoration, in solemn might; _to She Who Loves The Whole Night I dedicate this sacrifice._

Pagan, he caresses her full buttocks white as the moon now pearling them with its light; an idolator he adores the full peach of her cunny so quivering in love that its petals have emerged from between its lips, beading with dew, eager for a prick to embrace; a sinner he makes the sin that is a woman's flesh into a thing holy as he so worships her body in the night. _Let the dervishes walk on, my sweet, my sweet; even if they saw you they would not see, not see this vessel that carries me to the Divine, your body the ship that saves, oh, my sweet Yassamin, my Yassamin, my sweet--sweeter than the jasmine itself that yonder blooms, sweet, sweet._

And now Yassamin has to turn her head a little, looking at her husband where his eyes would be, melting from his sweetness in turn. _Never did I imagine that I would be violated to the tenderness of a love song,_ she now whispers to him with her mind, his grip on her having loosened so that she can remove the silk from her mouth and speak her love out loud. "Were you not supposed to ravish me wildly?" she mock-scolds him, her heart light and all of her fluttering around him.

Fluttering, fluttering like her flesh, too, now ripples around his length: adoring, he traces with his invisible fingers the pink, full and thick petals of her cunny so enclosing his ghost-prick _like a flower, like a flower turning to me as if to her sun, oh, all of you made of flowers beyond the one they named you after,_ he thinks as he brings up a stripe of slickness to anoint her anus with, making that still-furled bud, too, shining and bright. _How can I ravish a garland?_ he laughs, swooning as if this were an opium dream, now a laughter so audible it startles the nightingale, making it pause briefly in its song.

But Yassamin knows the power of her Babel eyes, knows what a witch-glance over her shoulder can do, what glamours a squeeze of her cunny can weave around too timid a prick: "Do you want me to beg?" she asks with the sweetest, most mock-innocent of croons, the hip-roll and love-shudder of the dancing girl as she mimicks this very act in a house of ill repute. _So have I hungered for you, my beast,_ she calls to him within his mind, and the tears that now rise into her throat are genuine; _other women tell me their men are lazy, unimaginative, finish as soon as they have started--only now do I truly realise how blessed I have been in being wedded to you, blessed that you should have chosen me out of all the women in the world. You make me feel as the soul to God as it prostrates at the foot of his Throne, weeps in utter humble gratitudes for having been given more than its due--my love, you play the heathen but it is through you and only you that I find the One God._

She cannot see him, but he shivers within her; his hips tense, coil, pull back in the preparation of a thrust--yet, he tarries, his fingers dug deep into the flesh of her buttocks.

And now her eyes close, tears escaping onto her cheeks: she reaches out to take his hand and he gives it, but she does not open her eyes lest he has made himself visible: tonight, she only wants to feel, feel. Love itself, the wonder of Jaffar himself, like God, so beyond any shape or form. "Ravish me," she now begs, pleads, for nothing less will do; "Lay waste to me, my sweet, you know what I mean by this! Vanquish me, reduce me to dust--joyously--like Love itsel--"

But now, Love itself takes aim and releases its arrow: the air is blown out of her lungs as he takes her by the hips and crushes her into the marble. He thrusts into her so violently it hurts, so that her insides curl up from the sudden impact, a wave of nausea creeping up her throat but it's perfect; it's sublime. He is crushing her like the hand of God, she thinks in her delirium, grinding her soul to dust as if her body were the mortar and his prick the pestle--no, _both_ their souls, he mixing into her as spice mixes into spice, two different flavours forming a third, more exquisite than either of them alone, oh, oh--

"Is that enough?" he snarls into her ear out loud, tugging her head up by the hair as he moves into her, finding the exact right angle through which to move past the womb; now, he is no longer hurting it, sliding into that space behind it that turns her molten, makes her trickle like the fountain lions' mouths, oh, oh; "Is this what my pretty little wanton wanted, hmm?" he laughs as he bites into her neck, devouring the shivers of her scream as it passes up her windpipe, rippling into his mouth and his belly and his cock as he so clings to her, the cheetah strangling the gazelle. "Was it the thought of _this_ that got your cunny so hot and so wet when you walked out into the courtyard, all plump and full between your legs? Hmm? A fat prick to split this little peach? Do you like it?"

"Yes!" she shrieks, her very blood throbbing, singing, galloping that "Yes," drumming it against his tongue dancing upon her jugular. "Please, please, please, more, please!" she howls, needing this humiliation, this play of the lady spoiled so utterly, her upbringing still fighting her pleasure, Jaffar her only liberator from propriety's chains. It is only he she wants to be bound to, forever, gasping in her joy as he bite-kisses, suck-kisses her neck red and pink and sore and oh, tomorrow, she will be bedecked, bejewelled a whore with his precious gems of black and blue. The sharp, electric pleasure of the suck-bites is maddening, one of the quickest ways to render her insane from fever, each suck turning her entire body into a cunny palpitating; each suck a little orgasm. And her cunning Jaffar knows this, stays still within her at the peak of each suck to feel as she clenches, squeezes, convulses, ripples, trickles, sprays and shrieks around his cock. 

_Please,_ she thinks into him, pouring her want into him, showering him with her need. She is close, so close, now, her eyes rolling back in her head; _lover, please; lover, please; lover, please._

His laughter is ugly and dark. He drops his hips into a deeper roll, drops his voice into a pitying croon, the demon in him terrifying even Jaffar himself, she can tell, her soul now so close to his their hearts sin as one. "But, my sweet, what about what _I_ want?" he meaows into her ear, mocking her, laughing outrageously. "Whoever heard of the slave girl commanding her master?" 

The note in his voice is so terrible that in that moment, she truly believes the unbelievable: that he could leave her like this, trembling at the edge of orgasm, unsated. Jaffar never would, but a part of her _wants_ to believe it; _Jaffar_ wants her to believe it so that she can feel she has earned her relief, that she has been a good girl, that she has paid for the joys he has given her. Like some spiritual tax exacted, she thinks; like the heathens here speak of karma and its debt, making sure--with abundant sacrifices--that they will continue to enjoy their blessings if they but show God they do not take these blessings for granted. And she could not be more grateful, oh--she trembles in Jaffar's grip as he lifts them, so that they are both now kneeling, her back bent like a bow: so far back he bends her that her thighs come off the edge of the fountain; so far back that her hair touches the grass.

She licks her lips, her eyes seeking his invisible ones as she feels the heat of his face next to hers; even now, she can feel his eyes transfix her from the aether, chain her in this straining position, pin her in place more than his hands ever do, his will holding her prisoner. "Please, my lord," she rasps. "Please let me please you."

"That's better," he purrs wetly as he lets his hand travel down her sternum, her belly, his fingertips pausing just as they brush the top of her mound. He drums his fingers atop it, making a mockery of considering for a moment; without warning, he slips his hand to her slit and begins to rub her clitoris vigorously, trapping it between his fingers. "Now, this, I quite like," he breathes hot and wet in her ear as she moans and as her cunny squeezes around his cock; "you do know how to milk a man, do you not?"

"Yes, master."

She can tell he is turning his face cunnywards, deliberately refusing to look at her face; now, he makes himself a little more visible, a Jaffar half transparent. And now she can see why: slowly, oh, so very slowly, he lifts a thick, glistening strand of her sap from her cunny, lifting it out into the moonlight with his ghostly fingers. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he plays with it, lifting out further strings until they form a shimmering cat's cradle between his hand and her cunny, letting her arousal dance between the long elegance of his fingers. And it seems to her that he is holding her very love out into the light to test it, but that he is holding it out to the light of lovers, the gentle Moon understanding love better than her harshly glaring solar brother might. 

And this makes her shake, ripple into him this thought: _Does this prove to you my love, my lord? My loyalty, my submission to your might? Or do you find me wanting?_

He turns to her, his hand still lifted out into the moonlight. His eyes dance with mischief, the tyrant's mask cracking a little where the spider's web of laughter-wrinkles deepens about the corners of his eyes. "Oh, but it proves to me all," he murmurs softly, the moonlight glittering through his irises as he lifts his fingers to her lips for a taste; "Yassamin--!" he cries as she dares bite them in the way he so loves, his cock leaping inside of her as his body is jolted with the sudden pleasure-pain. His eyes flash with wickedness as he swiftly turns himself invisible once more, turns his voice harsher as he wipes his hand upon her belly. "There _is_ indeed something more you could give me, girl."

"I am yours to command," she says, but now with a new coquetry, a squeeze of her cunny bolder around his cock, a little sharp prod to make the beast awaken once more.

"Enough!" he cries. With sudden, brutal force, truly inflicting pain to show her he is serious, he yanks her arms behind her back and pushes her face into the marble. So swiftly he does this that her hair falls splashing into the fountain; the act sends some water spilling over the edge, making her sputter as it soaks her kaftan, now a wet mess pressed against her face. 

"Keep your hands behind your back," he snaps, crossing them at the wrist and pressing them against the small of her back. 

She is still coughing as he truly starts to thrust: she mewls into the wet silk as he slips his hand to her clitoris. But it is a mewl of surprise: she is pushed onto the brink of orgasm so soon that she wonders if he isn't using love-magic on her, driving her body into climax as he is now driving it into the marble. 

"Never in a million years! I want you to give me _your_ pleasure, my girl," he purrs, his voice strained from the force of his blows. _A soft bed to fall into at the end of the night, my love, a soft bed indeed,_ he croons into her mind a pard. _Just as you are now giving a good eyeful to--no, don't look! You'll ruin it if you look,_ he lisps; _now, push your pretty little cunny out, pretty little cunny, come on, come, come--!_

"I hate you!" she howls out in love into the wet bunch of silks, but it is of no use: he needn't even show to her herself, or show to her the possible passersby in order to undo her. Oh, no, on the contrary: it is _exactly_ because she cannot see this woman--this woman now prostrating there with her cunny open, taken by the night--that the thrill of it now shakes her body and makes her convulse in violent release. She imagines eyes widened, tongues stealing out to wet parched lips, rough hands swift upon aching pricks; it is by these that she is undone, undone indeed. 

Some prostitute, some concubine, some slave girl she hopes they think her to be: for what has Jaffar made her, if not the picture of the Harlot, but anonymous flesh tossing in lust's abandon, heat? No longer Yassamin of Basra, no longer a chaste royal princess, she, cleansed of all her responsibilities by the alchemy of Jaffar's loving ministrations: she is become pink and red and heated flesh itself, cunny itself, all thigh and heaving buttock; again the Ishtar, Venus, Gauri her master has always known her to be.

"Jaffar..." she moans, but her master is not listening; he has drunk from her orgasm and with it, intoxicated himself, heady from her love's wine. Reeling, mad, he roars behind her, yet it is a noise of some strange frustration still: he bleeds into her mind so that she can tell he is forcing himself not to finish yet, tormenting himself with how desperately he wants this to last. As he watches her flesh opening for his invisible penetration, his mewls are those of an astonished youth upon his wedding night: as he now shares this singular sight with her, it is with an air of secrecy, as if he were now trying to conceal this holy vision from any others who may have been watching. 

_Look--but, my sweet, look--_

And now he not only feels, but _sees_ each blow of pleasure as he deals it her, each flattening of her cunny's lips as he drives home, the way she clenches in delight each time he hits the back of her womb. The way her inner labia stretch and fold and drag around his length, and around him, her spirit, her entire body warm from satiation and love. The darkness of her body swallows him and he wants to fall, fall, fall--

"Then, do," Yassamin calls out to him, beckons to him inside of his body--

"No!" he cries and pushes her out of his mind, hurting her, hurting himself as he draws his cock out too fast. But a glimmering film of wetness defines the shape of his prick there in the dark; a wet noise marks its place as it slaps against his belly, drops of her sap spattering onto her buttocks. "I need this," he rasps, his voice reedy, thin; "I must--"

And she does not have to wonder what he means as he whimpers and presses the tip of his cock to her anus. Yet even then, he stills, tarries--oh, that even in his ravishing, he should apologise for this, ask permission for this! Her laughter glitters crystalline with the water as she spreads her buttocks for him and offers herself. 

"I would never forgive you if you _didn't,_ my beloved sodomite," she says warmly over her shoulder, smiling as she sees herself through his eyes, all wet hair, smeared kohl and a beckoning heat. "Please."

He turns himself half-visible once more to show her his happiness; presently, he presses deeper against her arse and strokes her cheek with the back of his index finger. "So is this what my little wanton was hoping for?" he murmurs.

She bites her lip and helps him slicken her arse with her wetness, sharing with him the wonderful, deep pleasure of their fingers as they slide in and out of her. "The way you spoke to me in the dark..." she shivers, that gooseflesh the opening of these gates always brings now dancing over her flesh. "Would you do it again?"

"Gladly," he rasps. His eyes are slitted from pleasure as he begins to push inside of her; she is so wet there's still plenty of her sap left on his hands, so much that his palms slip upon her buttocks. "God!" he groans and turns entirely visible, losing control of the spell as he watches her tasting her fingers, shamelessly displaying the pleasure of the Byzantine sin to him, sending to him the taste of this sweet salt. "You little tart!" he cries and steals her hand from her mouth, sucking the traces of her taste off her fingers, biting them, uncaring of her screams as the pain of this cleaves open her flesh, allowing him to slip all the way inside. "Shameless, shameless, teasing little trollop!" he hisses, his spit spattering into her palm.

"S-something l-like that," she but grins through chattering teeth and resumes her position, reclaiming her hand and using it to stroke her cunny; his pleasure pours into her so openly that she can feel his prick through her clitoris, can feel each one of his thrust-shivers as her own. "You feel wonderful," she murmurs, suddenly overcome by emotion, devastated by the honesty, the simplicity of this moment: after such an elaborate play, after such elaborate magics, they are again but two human lovers joined together in body, moving as one. 

And she can be sure no one is watching, either: she can feel the faint hum of a glamour-barrier around the fountain, Jaffar now embracing her, hugging her against himself with both his flesh and his magic. He may always be ready to share her body at will, to lead her into orgies by the hand, but would never share a moment like this with anyone else, never the deepest love they share for one another. For their lovers may come and go, but the core of their love is theirs and theirs alone, the soul-bond where he thinks her thoughts before she herself does, where she moves her body the way he had meant to move his, their breaths and hearts so commingled that--

 _I am closer to you than your jugular vein,_ and neither knows which one of them quotes the holy verse first. But at that, they fall onto the grass laughing, tumbling-- _Trust you to think of the nearness of God during sodomy!_ he laughs at her--or is this him laughing at himself?

 _It must be us both,_ she tells him diplomatically as she lies beneath him, spreads to him her legs upon the more comfortable bed of grass, _both of us old sodomites._ And again she welcomes him into her body, guiding him into her arse with her hand, taking his mouth with a kiss. He enters her guts with much more gentleness, now, the sweetness of sugar-dust, all of them but entwined fingers, legs, tongues as they wrap about each other, rock into each other. _Let go, my sweet hunter,_ she calls to him, _my secret lover no longer made of but shadows; take me with you as into Love's sea you fall._

"Oh, but that's just it," he groans, shuddering atop her; he buries his face in her shoulder, his hair falling out of its tie. As he lifts his face again, it is framed perfectly by the moon; silver shining through the silver of his hair a nimbus. "No one--" and now his eyes, finally fully visible, are filled with tears: tears with an entire lifetime of bitterness behind them. As she cups his face with her hand, these tears spill out onto the lines of his cheeks, as beautiful and as joyous as rills in a desert brought to life by a sudden rain; they, too, glimmer silvern in the night. 

"It is only that no one has ever opened for me like you do, Yassamin," he whispers, feverishly kissing her palm as if he would bury his love even there, into every cell of her body, just as he had said, just as he now buries his prick into her to the hilt. "Nobody has ever been this open for me. The way your cunny wets, so warm and so heated and so full; there's nothing like it! And then there's _this_ little thing--" he groans, shakes his head and swallows. "God, believe you me: I have had the filthiest of dancing-boys, ones who lived for the prick, with arses like mouths, but _this!_ " he laughs in disbelief, rutting his hips into her, luxuriating in the hot silk of her flesh. "No one has ever taken me so, swallowed me so, _loved_ me so," he weeps, and his tears fall over the bruises he's made on her neck, diamonds among the rubies and the darkening opals he has left there.

Yassamin bursts into laughter, but a laughter kind and not mocking, rocking him in her arms, playing a love song upon his back with her toes. "I am glad. I don't know what else to say; I haven't your experience!" she says and urges him to move more, now taking her hand to rub her cunny. "But were you to let me sample all the lovers in the world, I doubt anyone would open me like my Jaffar," she says, "so wet me and so soften me, so open me to my soul," she whispers. Her breath comes out shorter now, all of her tensing as he slides into the deepest part of her, now, to the very mouth of her colon; as he slides in and out of that gate of the most sublime of ecstasies, she is lost. Now, words begin to scatter out of her mouth like tremors, pouring over his shoulders, bursting from her lips like the sprays of ejaculate she now paints his pudendum with, on and on as each one of his thrusts hits home--"No one--!" she cries, "no one, no one in--no one in the world like my Jaffar, my Jaffar, my Jaffar."

But then she can speak no more: the tremors rise and cascade down her flesh in violent shudders, and there, she crashes and tumbles and vaults and dives deep, deep, deep, deep; into release, into completion, into perfection, pulling her Jaffar down with her into the roar of her being.

But now, as he makes impact, it is a new kind of shock to her, blowing the air out of her lungs: he roars as if slain and slams into her with not only his body but his soul, crashing into her more violently than ever before. He judders, she judders, the earth judders: she remembers the day her father had ordered a giant Greek stone idol to be taken down, dozens of men bringing it crashing down to earth. Tens of tons, they said it had weighed, a giant stone man tumbling into the ground, the earth shaking so that it could be felt a mile off, her mother had told her. And little Yassamin had had nightmares of that stone man for weeks, his stern face looking at them seemingly in anger at being so conquered, shamed; this ancient god-king whom none had dared defy while he had still lived.

And now, into her falls this man who is her husband, the once-king, still the greatest sorcerer in the land; he crashes into her with such fury that she fears her bones will break, yet still she welcomes him in love; what else can she do? From her body, as always, she makes a home for him and his love, as she had made it a home for their children; from her pleasure she makes the ocean of peace he so craves in all his tumultuousness, his restlessness, holding him until he is still. _Unto me, unto me, unto me, my sweet; fall, fall, fall, fall,_ she sings to him her sweetness a lullaby, the warmth of her flesh his cradle, enfolding him in her gratitude, her happiness, her care.

Exhaustion now robes them with its soft, heavy velvets; the night so warm they sleep there in the garden, like Adam and Eve in their days of innocence. Dream chases dream, Jaffar running through her sleep a pard, she running through his dreams a gazelle; the pard becomes black, a panther, tussling in a jasmine bush, covered in the fragrant white rain of its petals, laughing his joy to the heavens. And then it is she who is the darkness and he the child Sun resting within her heart, a golden seed sleeping in the earth: he shimmers in her darkness a golden drop, and then he is gone--and in the next moment, he bursts forth from her nurturing a giant, sheltering tree. And in another dream, she, like Hagar, runs and runs in the desert, dying from thirst; and there comes the angel, there comes his heel kicking the ground, from there bursts forth the holy wellspring: she cups her hands and drinks from it, thanking God for her Jaffar, her Zamzam. 

This way, they flit from dream to dream, until suddenly, she wakes up with a start in the night. She screams in her terror, but his arms hold her tight; it takes a while for her to remember where they are, many kisses from him for her to finally be able to laugh about it all.

"We must be getting old," she murmurs as they sneak back into the house, using a spell to cover themselves up in lieu of clothes. "We could have been murdered there by robbers," she shudders, these chills lasting for long moments even as Jaffar surrounds their bed with braziers, turning the bedroom so warm they might as well be at the baths.

"I protected us with a spell at the end, remember," Jaffar yawns and stretches. "Soon, we must teach the children to do the same."

"Think of it," she says, yawning with Jaffar, dozing in the warmth of the braziers, enjoying the crisp and dry sheets. "Will they grow up to have adventures like that?"

"I hope they will," he chuckles. "Imagine Salsabil pretending to be a pairi, wooing some hapless prince..."

"I wouldn't put it past her," she laughs. "But you must teach them to use magic respons--" a huge yawn cracks her jaw. "Responsibly. No blue roses."

He raises his eyebrow and pouts. "And no wild, ghostly ravishments?"

"Only if their princes and princesses ask--ask nicely."

"Well, if you put it that way..." 

But his lascivious grin is wasted, as his princess has drifted off to sleep. Therefore, her wicked wizard wraps his arms about her and follows her into the land of dreams, forever the hungry pard pursuing the swift gazelle.

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable Tumblr promo post for the fic [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/146553794423/fic-the-garden-of-gazelles-jaffarprincess)


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